Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"So," Futakuchi draws out the word just long enough for his plastic chopsticks to clash with Aone's wooden ones, cursing under his breath as they snap at each other for the last kani croquette between them.

Aone uses his utensils to pinch Futakuchi's thumb, pulling back at the other boy's startled 'ow' and snatching up the last piece from a bed of shredded cabbages.

Futakuchi glares at him, mouth pulling down into a sulking pout Aone's developed immunity to for a couple of years now. The plastic chopsticks clatter onto Futakuchi's bento in defeat, a matching lacquered onyx that always seemed much too classy to house the boy's curry omurice and daikon salad.

Aone dips his head gracefully, like orchid petals curling down to kiss the grass, motion a heavy dew drop sliding down to soil before springing back up to face the sun.

He sees Futakuchi's lips twitch at the habit, it's as close as he's getting to hearing him say, 'You win.'

Aone lifts his hands, gently, gently, so very gently, to cover his own bento, cotton wrapping soft and worn at his fingertips. He wraps it up while counting a one, two, three in his head, picturing his mother deftly folding and knotting with long, calloused fingers.

"So," Futakuchi starts again, perhaps the first time wasn't just a distraction to steal his lunch after all, "Have you decided yet?"

Aone glances up at him, a quick dart of his eyes tracing over determined brows and a nervous frown. He tugs the knot on his bento once, twice, then thrice.

They both know where this is going.

The low hum of conversations around them seem to ebb away. It's impossible that everyone else in their class would fall silent at the question, but that's what it feels like. The air around them and their smushed together tables is heavy, swollen with a warm and unpleasant weight expanding in their chests.

The heat is familiar to them. It's dark and cloudy, smoke tickling their noses and making them suck in a breath like when their old upperclassmen tell them about the school's haunting lore, about missing students and endless hallways with a crying woman lurking, lost and angry.

They know better now. Breathe easier. So when the heat sparks to life, hot coals crackling from something both boys refuse to admit to, their courage can kill the flames.

Aone threads his fingers together, placing them on top of his old, scratched up desk. He nudges his bento closer to the center of the table, settling his hands better and looking out the window.

The sky is bright and blue today, clouds white and feathery like godly whispers making their way across the city.

Aone turns back to Futakuchi, startles at seeing him thumbing a button on his gakuran, and suddenly they're both kids again.

Aone, sliding his head into his sweater out of quiet distress, Futakuchi, rolling a shiny button on his shirt between a thumb and a forefinger with no idea what to say.

"Can we be friends?" He remembers asking just moments before.

"I'm only friends with people who have heads!" Futakuchi huffs out a minute after Aone had settled nicely into the cocoon of knitted wool, feeling small fingers tug his sweater back down.

The sky was blue then too.

Aone thinks the color to be a comfort. A promise, even. As long as he keeps his head above his shoulders, as long as the sky turns blue, they'll be fine.

Futakuchi hears him, like he always does, like he always will. His fingers drop from where they'd lingered on his uniform, and his face eases into something resigned, loyalty and fondness smoothing out the rough edges of disappointment.

Like orchid petals, Futakuchi dips his head. It's a barely there nod, a nudge of the passing breeze. A rare moment of surrender offered in the looseness of his shoulders.

Aone smiles, soft and small like a particularly well hidden secret.

He answers slowly, shyly, cadence at the pace of an apology.

"I'm going to Aoba Johsai."

They run out of time much too quickly.

Aone touches his throat, fingers pressing lightly. He swallows and winces, feeling the soreness start to tingle. He wants to blame the chill of the spring air, perhaps the untimeliness of his early morning run, but it's his graduation day.

He's allowed to be emotional and ridiculous today.

There are sakura petals fluttering down on them, wind sweeping them back and forth in a playful dance. Sunlight rich like liquid gold, soaking pale petals translucent and ethereal. They land in his newly dyed hair and on his freshly ironed clothes, pale pink kissing snow and ink.

Aone catches one of the petals in the palm of his hand, letting the next bout of wind carry it off to a nearby group of graduates huddling together for a group photo.

His rowmate, Amatsu-san, is one of them, seated precariously between two of his friends shoulders, catching his eyes and waving at him with his diploma in his raised hand. His two friends whine at him to stay still for the shot, a couple of the girls crouched down below them telling all three of the boys to shut up and smile.

Aone nods his head and gives them a thumbs up.

They've just dispersed, ceremony finished and too many songs sung at the highest volume possible. Some of his seatmates had shared a similar fate as him, surnames of their closest friends scattered much too far for the last day they had together. So it was to be expected, that during the Dean's welcome address, Amatsu-san to his left had murmured to them that if their best friends wouldn't be able to see them as they closed this chapter of their lives, they would at least be able to hear them.

Aone had turned his head and wondered what he'd meant, but the wide smile the other boy flashed as the music for their first song swelled to life had been a clear 'Follow my lead.' Amatsu-san had taken a lungful of air before belting out the lyrics louder than anyone in their row.

It had been a chain reaction, laughter and voices rising all around them. Aone heard Futakuchi a few rows behind him, the first to yell out the second voice to the chorus. He'd had no choice then, face splitting into a helpless grin as his raspy baritone joined Amatsu-san's, blending smoothly with Futakuchi's confident tenor.

He gets a dull thwack to the back of his head before the sakura petals are twirling around him, warm hands spinning him around and fingers squeezing the softness of his cheeks together.

A lone petal lands on his nose.

"What the hell was that earlier?" Futakuchi asks him smirking, voice rough and cracking from all the high notes he'd valiantly tried to reach.

Aone furrows his brow and points a thumb in the general direction of Amatsu-san behind them, and it seems to be enough as he feels Futakuchi release his face and swipe the petal off his nose, blowing it away between his fingers with narrowed eyes like it is a piece of unworthy lint.

The two of them make their way to a nearby sakura tree, the trickle of petals doubling with branches just overhead. Futakuchi wrinkles his nose and gives up dusting them off, leaning against the trunk and watching the other students milling about.

Aone settles beside him, leaving the hand that's not holding his diploma out to catch more petals.

They stand there side by side, comfortable silence wafting around them as they will the world to stop moving forward for just a few more hours.

"What do they wear over there, anyway?" Futakuchi asks him suddenly with genuine curiosity, eyes steady on two of their classmates holding hands and spinning under the spray of petals, laughing and squealing as their black pleated skirts swish with the movement.

Aone judges the small pile of petals in his palm as enough and turns to Futakuchi, blowing them right in his face before following his line of sight.

Futakuchi's left eye twitches, and his diploma thwacks Aone softly in the stomach, making him grunt out a laugh.

"White blazer, red tie, and beige plaid slacks."

There is a moment of silence again, his friend preoccupied with imagining the uniform carefully. And then he chokes on his spit.

"Oh my--" Futakuchi snorts, shoulders shaking and diploma hitting the bark of the tree just beside his hip. "Holy fuck."

Aone stares at Futakuchi, blinking and tilting his head, a curious hum rumbling out of him.

"Aone, you're going to look so lit up," Futakuchi hisses out with glee, laughter making his voice crack again, his diploma switches targets, moving to hit Aone's arm repeatedly as he keeps laughing, "Your uniform's going to match your hair, oh my god."

Aone freezes, recalling the uniform he fitted the weekend before and feels the urge to try and sink into the collar of his gakuran. He huffs and gets as much as his chin past the open collar before Futakuchi's tugging the hem of his uniform down to keep him from hiding.

"Knock that off." He scolds, settling closer beside him.

Another moment passes before Futakuchi looks at him somberly, gentle as he says, "You can do that all you want when you're in your new uniform."

And he bursts into another round of laughter, shaking petals from his movement before he rightfully hits the back of his head against the trunk of their tree.

Aone sighs and checks his head for any blood or swelling, satisfied to find neither, and subtly messes up Futakuchi's hair in the process.

Futakuchi is unamused. "Vengeance is unbecoming on you."

Aone shrugs and pushes himself off the tree trunk to stretch his legs a bit, "You don't turn ugly just because your hair is messy."

He watches his friend click his tongue and card fingers through his hair, frustration crumpling up his face.

"Damn it, Aone, can't you be just a little easier to hate?" He moans out in anguish, the unspoken 'So I don't have to miss you' vivid between them like sakura petals shot with sunlight.

Aone blinks at him, sighing out a breath in exasperation. Huff of air coasting an invisible 'Friends are going to miss each other no matter what' hitting Futakuchi squarely in the face like the spring breeze.

Futakuchi makes the same face he's always made at Aone when he knows he's lost a not-discussion. His eyebrows slope and his nose scrunches, mouth pursing in childish defeat.

He sighs, steering a wayward sakura petal off course in front of him, and Aone can't help but watch it dance away in a direction different to where it was likely supposed to go.

"About what I said earlier," Futakuchi says calmly, softly the way he is when he's being serious, "with the uniform."

Aone nods and brings up his diploma in both his hands, smooth matte finish of the cylinder catching falling petals for him to roll off as he listens.

"Don't worry about it. They're going to love you over there."

Futakuchi clears his throat and hastily adds on a brazen, "We're still going to kick your ass come tournament season though."

Aone stops the cylinder from rolling, a few petals on the brink of falling off and rejoining the wind, and eyes him with an amused look, gaze asking him, 'How can you be sure?'

"About kicking your ass?" Futakuchi clarifies, scoffing and smiling like he's about to step onto the court, "Because I'll be on the team, of course."

Aone stares at him with with an unimpressed flare of his nostrils.

"You mean about the other thing?" And Futakuchi sounds so disbelieving that Aone would have to ask about that, as if it were so obvious that Aone is nothing if not someone universally loved by his peers.

This is odd to Aone, because while he likes a countless assortment of people, he can basically count the number of close friends he has on one hand. Which is fine by him, since any more than that would mean his dramatic farewell gifts wouldn't be equal to the number of people.

As if on cue, four students come up to them, three of them underclassmen, the remaining one a fellow graduate, all from the volleyball club and all in different stages of crying.

"Aone-senpai, Futakuchi-senpai," One of the second years wail at them, bowing before careening into Aone's side and grasping at the sleeve of Futakuchi's gakuran, "I can't believe you're both leaving us!"

Aone feels dampness on his stomach start to form, ignoring it in favor of patting the younger boy's head, thoughtfully brushing off stray petals in his hair.

The other underclassmen, one boy and one girl, both sniffle against each other, nodding in agreement with their fellow second year.

Futakuchi glances at Aone, mouthing out a smug 'They're going to love you just like this.' while his arm tries to shake off his kouhai's firm grip. "Nadeshiko-kun, it's okay, let's just let go of my sleeve, yeah?"

"No!" Nadeshiko bawls out, "I just can't believe you're leaving us." He repeats and rubs his face against Aone's uniform harder.

Aone grimaces at the feel of snot and tears on him but continues to stroke the boy's head.

"Especially you, Futakuchi-senpai," Nadeshiko manages, looking up with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

Futakuchi is momentarily stunned at this personal confession, arm pausing from shaking the boy off and slightly annoyed frown melting into a small, surprised 'oh'.

"Your English grades were horrible, I was sure they'd hold you back!"

Futakuchi's face falls flat and his arm shakes Nadeshiko's hand off like a whip.

Their fellow graduate and team manager Matsumoto snorts, hiding a laugh behind her hand. "He just really looks up to you, Futakuchi."

Futakuchi rolls his eyes at her, and Matsumoto outdoes him by doing it back with much more energy. Aone sighs and gently pries Nadeshiko away, fixing the boy's collar and pulling out tissue paper to wipe his nose.

He makes him hold on to the tissue, "Blow."

Aone looks up at Futakuchi expectantly.

"What?"

Aone just waits like he always does, patient and steadfast.

Futakuchi groans, shuffling closer to Nadeshiko and nudging his head softly as he fondly mutters, "Goodbye and good riddance, you brat. Keep spiking past those Chidoriyama assholes, okay?"

Nadeshiko nods and steps back, rubbing at an eye before lining up with the other two second years. They seem to signal each other and bow at the same time, voices loud and emotional. "Thank you for taking care of us!"

A few other students around them glance over, some chuckling or cooing at the drama unfolding. Futakuchi groans again and drags a hand down his face.

Aone smiles, then suddenly realizes everyone he needed to see before going to his parents is here. He slides his hands in his pockets, gathering up the tiny cloth bags in them and pulling them out.

Futakuchi catches sight of the small, black drawstring bags pulled shut with cheap, gold string, widening the gap between his fingers to peer at them. "What's that, Aone?"

Aone grunts, tossing one for Futakuchi to catch. Then looks at Matsumoto who's watching him with fond confusion. He raises up another cloth bag and tilts his head at her, asking permission to throw.

Matsumoto gets ready, mimicking a receive which makes him chuckle, and throws the bag right into her waiting hands. The three underclassman perk up, copying their manager and waiting patiently until Aone tosses one bag at each of them.

"Open them." Aone requests simply, confident and excited with the careful curve of his mouth.

They all do, Futakuchi first to slide two fingers inside to feel a small, smooth round object. He makes a puzzled expression before pulling it out.

It's a button.

No, it's their school uniform's button.

Futakuchi's face goes through several different expressions before settling on embarrassed beyond belief, "Aone, what the fuck?"

It is at this particular second in time, face hot and laughter bubbling in the back of his throat, that Futakuchi notices the marbled and brown shade of Aone's gakuran buttons. A minute difference from the standard shiny black buttons provided by the school.

Matsumoto squeals, laughing in similar disbelief as she runs up to both of them, arms wrapping around their heads as she starts crying.

"Oh my god, Aone, you sap." She sobs, squeezing them so hard it gets difficult to breathe. Her long hair tickles their faces, and both Futakuchi and Aone mentally agree that it feels softer than any petals flying around them.

The underclassmen are bawling again, fresh tears running down their faces. Nadeshiko, as expected, roars to life, holding his dark button up in the air, "SENPAI GAVE ME HIS BUTTON! OH MY GOD!"

Their upperclassmen laugh, still squished together under the sakura tree, and their juniors realize how unfair the scene is, charging at the three of them at full speed until they're all plastered against the rough bark of the tree trunk, sobbing and laughing until they collapse in a heap on the ground.

Futakuchi speaks up after a while, face now slightly damp and flushed, chin resting on Nadeshiko's sniffling head and still under random body parts. "So, Aone?"

"Mm?" He hums, slumped against the tree the most, arms held down by the other second years and Matsumoto sprawled out from his lap all the way to Futakuchi's.

"Who got the second button?"

Aone bursts out into a glorious howl of laughter, never stopping to answer the question.

Aoba Johsai has a large campus. Or at least, larger than Aone's junior high campus.

The buildings are clean and well maintained, tall enough that Aone feels a little better about himself. He's still taller than most people, but there's not nearly as much risk of dwarfing the school facilities and property around him in general.

The first time Aone needed to use the stall in the first floor bathroom, he was surprised to stand up and still find his head well below the top edge of the stall walls and door. He'd come out of there looking so infinitely happy that the janitor felt compelled to congratulate him on a job well done.

He feels odd having to wear so many layers now, though. The uniform is ridiculously iconic, making it immediately identifiable in a crowd. It's likely from the colors.

Futakuchi hadn't been wrong about it being bright, but he hadn't been right about Aone's pale, dyed hair coordinating horribly with most of the fabric. It still coordinates, but not in a bad way.

The undershirt is a soft powder blue, subdued under the fire red tie Aone had redone one, two, three times before deeming it straight enough. He has it tucked in properly, most of it hidden under what Aone happily notes is the softest wool sweater vest he's ever worn. It feels like a kitten. Or a new puppy's fluffy ears. He and Futakuchi had spent about half an hour petting it from its hanger when he had come over for their last sleepover as schoolmates.

His blazer is white, just like his hair. It's a hilarious coincidence that, at its worst, only makes him look like a well dressed polar bear, according to Futakuchi. Aone likes polar bears, so he doesn't mind being likened to one, but it’s the thickness of his jacket that worries him. It's not flimsy by any means, sewn from quality material that feels a little too fancy for his skin, but it builds up his already large frame. And Aone really doesn't want to look any more intimidating than he already does.

The slacks aren't much of a problem. They're plaid and a shade of beige Aone isn't even sure is beige, but he figures his lack of vocabulary on appropriate colors is easily remedied by asking an art club member about it later on.

Aone makes a mental note to stop by their room when club promotions begin. He glances down at his new schedule, zeroes in on the section listed beside the characters of his name before looking up at the polished silver plaques hanging above the classroom doors. It feels like walking along those old cobblestone streets in Europe, shop signs all old wood and wrought iron hung up to swing and creak with the wind. Only shinier.

Everything here is shinier.

A few first years hanging around outside of their classrooms stare at him, ducking their heads or looking off at a far wall when he passes by. He counts the doors and checks the section signs before stopping at the end of the hallway.

1-5

The door is open, floor newly waxed and desks gleaming with a new coat of paint. Aone steps in and looks around, there are only a handful of students inside, uniforms in varying degrees of adhering to the dresscode. Most of them are in groups or pairs, slumped or leaning over desks or the large classroom windows framing the campus gardens and the side of the gymnasium.

Aone feels a rush of excitement flood up to his face, holding back a wide smile and most of his breath. His feet take him to the middle row, sliding into the empty seat next to the window where he has a perfect view of the gym. It's so much bigger, and nicer, than his old school's gymnasium that he can't help it when his hand pulls his phone out of his pocket for a picture to send Futakuchi.

He sends it with no subject heading or message, just the photo itself followed by his favorite excited bear emoji.

It's only a minute later that his phone buzzes in his hand, a slightly blurry selfie of Futakuchi inside of their own impressively designed gym from what seems to be a schoolwide assembly. There's one student a seat behind him throwing a victory sign just above his friend's head. His tangerine tie is neater than Aone's, blazer a deep green that matches the volleyball uniforms they'd been tracking at the last Inter High.

Aone feels his shoulders sag a bit, free hand splaying wide across the empty expanse of his shiny new desk in his shiny new classroom, and notices how cold the tabletop is.

His thumb drags over it, moving back and forth in a wide arc its memorized from the deep scratch carved out on his old table back in junior high. There were dozens of dents and nicks, names and numbers listed from countless alumni leaving a piece of themselves on the chipping wood.

Aone had left no such mark, felt it disrespectful to cover any of the older carvings. He'd found that Futakuchi had drawn a small, lopsided bear emoji on the armrest the day before graduation, signing it with Aone's initials in a believable forgery of his handwriting.

There's another buzz from his phone, this time a text from Futakuchi, words shortened and misspelled from impatience at Aone's silence.

U bter not show dat pic 2 any1.

Aone huffs, mouth smiling for a second before it smooths back into a thoughtful line, and thumbs out a reply.

I won't.

He shuts his phone with a click, mindful not to exhaust the hinge and places it on his desk. He remembers to keep his back straight, arms poised in a proper position with his fingers threaded together.

His eyes drift up to the gym again, glass and steel edifices sparkling under the sun. There's an itch prickling under the skin of his palms, climbing the veins up to his fingertips.

He wants to jump, and block, and spike.

He wants to tug on Seijou blues and whites, regal and sharp as a saber, hold up his phone's camera, just to send back an awkward selfie of himself draped in colors of the sky.

Futakuchi will know, like he always does, like he always will, that they'll be fine.

And that Aone was going to beat him and demand the other boy treat him to kuri kinton as his spoils of victory.

There is a boy in 1-5 three rows in front of Aone. He's around 180cm or taller (it would be rude to stretch out a roll of measuring tape next to him to check), and there's nothing spectacularly good or bad about him. From where he's seated, Aone can only see the back of his head. His classmate's hair is fluffy and short, shade just a stone's throw away from Futakuchi's earthy brown. There's a small moment where Aone entertains what type of brown his classmate is sporting, and it tapers off into a lament of definitely needing to pass by the art club sometime soon.

They may have a color guide of some sort.

When the student stands to help their homeroom adviser distribute some sort of forms to the other people in the first row, Aone sees his face clearly for the first time.

His hair is slightly wavy, bangs wisping in a bit of a curve where they part in the middle. It's around the same spot where Futakuchi's hair parts, dark strands slashing straighter and lighter on his forehead in contrast. His eyes are different too, they're larger and rounder, irises painted another shade of brown just short of the right pigment of almond. The contours of his face are rounder as well, lacking the sharpness and length Aone's used to.

His classmate is different, which isn't surprising since Aone does, in fact, know this boy is not Futakuchi. But there's something about the confidence in their shoulders, the subtle sureness in their eyes laying magnetic and disarming over a face schooled into whatever expression they fancy, that's familiar.

That strength, religiously sanded down to a smooth and quiet weapon, completely unnoticed by his other classmates, as if it were something hidden in his pocket and not plain on his face, is familiar.

"Thank you, Yahaba-kun." Kurosawa-sensei chirps at him as he sits back down. He twists in his seat to pass the rest of the papers down their column, eyes briefly meeting Aone's just before he turns to face the board.

The boy blinks, gaze whispering surprise, but mouth a carefully drawn line that's difficult to read.

Aone dips his head much too gently for his size, a barely there incline he hopes can net the fluttering fear that rises up in people's stomachs when they catch him staring.

It's not a sure thing if it works, but Yahaba looks away without a flinch, no lingering tension or stress carved into the set of his shoulders.

Aone wonders if the lack of response is thanks to his sincerity or to Yahaba's skill.

Lunch finds Aone drifting through the first floor corridors near the gardens he can see from his classroom. He wants to eat somewhere a little secluded today. The school has a large open square nestled in the atrium cut into their building, to the right of the corridor he's currently meandering in, visible from all floors via windows facing the terrarium perched in the middle of the structure.

The sun filters down on dark wooden benches and tables made to match nearby ginko trees and shrubbery, shaped like chopped and turned over trunks. All the walls on the side of the square have open entryways, square pillars cutting in between each one. It's picturesque, like a scene from a tapestry, or an old expensive yukata made for spring, meaning that most students are flocking there in droves.

Aone is slightly bothered that there are so many entrances heading to where he doesn't want to eat, while all that greet him to his left, and to the sprawling gardens carpeting the campus with a scenic view of the gymnasium, are windows.

He finally finds a set of doors leading to a concrete pathway that runs alongside and around the gardens, meeting the larger, main pathways prevalent across campus.

He sighs in relief, looking around before settling his eyes on a large ginko growing strong near a wooden arbor built over a small, round patch of concrete, more wooden tables and chairs smattered about with one lone vending machine resting to the far corner.

There are only a couple of students sitting under the arbor, occasionally pointing up at the vines snaking around the wooden beams, tangling up small fairy lights hanging in an even number.

Aone approaches carefully, placing his wrapped bento on the table nearest to the ginko tree. He belatedly realizes he forgot his thermos of tea in his room just as he's seated himself. He sighs and frowns down at his lunch, but then a sliver of the vending machine's bright, metallic blue catches the edge of his vision.

It'll do.

He stands up, quietly pleased that the other students haven't been disturbed, and heads to the vending machine. He's about to settle in front of the glass case when another student stops in front of him, body angled to do the same.

Aone blinks, the other student is much shorter than him, hair dyed a bleached blond with striking strips of black on both sides of his head. His uniform is untucked and in disarray, tie loose and both blazer and shirt sleeves shoved up. There's a moment of something like shock in his eyes, likely due to Aone's height, then he's seething up at the taller boy, posture slouched and glare firm.

Aone bows his head and steps back a bit, offering the other boy a turn first. He receives another one of those shocked, evaluating looks before the boy turns to the vending machine, depositing his money and jabbing a finger at the keypad, watching a mechanical arm pluck a bottle of cola from an upper slot and into the chute where his other hand swipes it quickly.

The other boy starts to walk away, heading back to the pathway but pauses, barely looking over his shoulder to set his hard gaze on Aone, and dips his chin with a surprising amount of gentleness.

Aone is left staring after him, hoping if he can count that as him making his first friend at school.

Aone is standing back up from claiming the iced tea he'd purchased when he sees a glint of something in the coin chute where the change should be.

There are a couple of coins waiting in it, unusually shiny and clean for vending machine money.

It can't be Aone's. He'd given the exact amount. Which means it's likely owned by the student from earlier.

Aone stares hard at the money. He can probably wrap it in paper and give it to the lost and found. It seems like a stretch, but Aone doesn't feel very confident hunting down a stranger with dyed hair to return his loose change to him.

He scoops the coins out of the chute and pockets it quickly, imagining Futakuchi's voice telling him he's such a softie and hoping his friend isn't eating too fast somewhere else in the city.

A text arrives later while Aone is sipping his iced tea, reporting that Futakuchi has found a new friend in the form of a fellow first year who saved him from choking on his takoyaki.

"Holy crap," A voice whispers somewhere to the left, "That guy is huge."

Aone makes a face as he arranges his bag and running shoes in the locker in front of him, dropping his volleyball sneakers on the floor with a loud smack. It was unintentional, but someone startles at the sound behind him, across the open space of the entryway to the other wall of lockers.

He looks over his shoulder, finding a short boy in the school's gym shirt and a pair of old looking volleyball shorts looking at him with wide eyes.

"Sorry."

The other boy blinks before smiling tentatively at him, "Don't worry about it," He says with a laugh, hand scratching with a satisfying sound against his short hair, "I think it's more of my nerves anyway."

Aone turns back to slip on his shoes, tapping the toe of each foot against the floor before turning around to face him fully. He steps closer to him, tilting his head to take in stiff shoulders and a tense stance. There is, however, that same tentative smile from earlier, brightness slowly lighting up the boy's face as his eyes reach the top of Aone's head.

"Man, you're a lot taller up close." He says with a bit of awe, gaze impressed and slightly envious.

Aone blinks down at him and grunts out a soft thank you, making the shorter boy laugh again. His shoulders have loosened a bit, but there's still tension locking up his arms.

Aone frowns and feels his hand find its way to the collar of his shirt, fingers absentmindedly tugging at the black fabric, as if trying to pull it up higher on his neck. He remembers Futakuchi and stops.

His hand releases his collar, sliding down to his chest and resting over where his heart is, palm pressed firmly and fingers splayed out. "Put your hand over your heart like this."

The shorter boy stares at him with a mixture of amusement and skepticism, eyebrow raised and mouth wry, but follows his instructions.

"Okay," He manages around another laugh, eyes watching him patiently as other students walk around them in the entryway, glancing and muttering theories about the two strange first years having a staredown right before club tryouts.

"Now what?"

Aone makes the fingers on his chest curl and clutch at his heart, miming pulling something free and holding it in front him like a cup.

"Um." Despite the fact that the other boy's eyebrows climb up at an alarming rate, he still follows Aone's instructions and performs his own lackluster version of 'scooping out the heart cup', acting as if the invisible cup in his hand is something disgusting.

"Throw it." Aone orders politely.

His companion looks up at him, eyes darting back and forth from the invisible heart cup and Aone's serious expression.

"Throw it?" He asks in confusion, hefting it in his palm and imagining the weight with furrowed brows, "But I just got it?"

"Throw it." Aone repeats sagely, this time with a nod.

The shorter boy scratches his head, glancing around and pinning him with an exasperated look, "Okay, where, exactly?"

"Anywhere you want."

Aone gets a worried look of disbelief, which he counters by throwing his invisible heart cup in the unfortunate direction of an incoming first year.

The boy stalls, eyeing them suspiciously before patting himself head to toe in search of any foreign objects, cautiously skirting around them to a locker near the doorway.

Aone's fellow invisible heart cup bearer bites his lip, holding back a snort of laughter before shrugging his shoulders and sighing. He turns toward their previous victim, throwing the cup at him just as he finishes putting on his volleyball shoes.

He makes a wide eyed, betrayed expression at them, hands flying up in the air from tying his laces as he storms past them back to the gym, "What the hell do you people keep throwing at me?"

"Sorry!" The shorter boy in front of him yells out as he watches the retreating figure, snickering and scratching at his cheek, "Well, I don't know about you but I'm going to be avoiding that guy's spikes all afternoon."

Aone tilts his head again, noting that the boy's limbs are loose and relaxed, tension melting away from the warmth of his laughter. He nods his head and offers a small smile. "Still nervous?"

"Wha--" He sputters back, gaping up at Aone and punching him in the arm, "Was that what you were doing?"

Aone shrugs and feels his smile widen, "When you're nervous it helps to throw things."

He pauses, and then amends, "Sometimes."

He gets another laugh for that, and then there's a tan fist thrust out at him, "Watari. Thanks."

Watari is expectant, eyes twinkling with mirth and grin large in a way Aone thinks he can grow used to.

"Aone. You're welcome." He bumps his own fist against Watari's, knuckles brushing gently, and feels himself puff up proud at having made a connection.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Watari peeks past Aone to his locker, door still open where the distinct buzz of a phone makes his bag's outer pocket twitch and vibrate.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Aone looks over his shoulder at it, brows raised in wonder, a faint inkling of who would be calling at such a specific hour of the school day.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

He hears Watari whistle low and peer up at him, lips curled into a knowing smirk, "Girlfriend?"

Bzzt. Bzzt.

It's their first week as schoolmates, possibly clubmates, and hopefully, friends. Aone doesn't think he's ever flared his nostrils at anyone so early into their relationship before.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

He trudges over to his bag, staring at the pocket and watching the outer flap twitch before deciding to slide a hand in and flip his phone open, thumb tapping the answer button and ear pressing against the receiver.

"Hey, Aone!" Futakuchi immediately starts talking, voice vibrant and bouncing against his ears with a confidence that makes Aone perk up, "That took you a while to answer. Are you already ditching me for new friends? Or did you lose your phone in your bag again?"

Aone huffs a laugh, brows arching and softly answering, "It's club tryouts right now."

Watari, surprisingly, leans against the lockers near him and waits for him, turning his head away to offer a modicum of privacy, large grin still plastered across his face.

Futakuchi hums in acceptance, static crackling over the phone and tickling Aone's ear, "It's the same over here. I think club for us starts a little earlier though. I'm just in the clubroom and--

"Hey! First year," Aone hears another voice over the line, deeper and louder than Futakuchi's, "If you're done changing head to the gym already. Don't keep the others waiting for you."

Aone tightens his grip on his phone and hears Watari make a curious noise beside him, "Futakuchi." He warns.

It's too late though. Futakuchi thrives on pissing people off if they rub him the wrong way, and as far as first impressions go, well, Aone wishes he were there to do damage control.

"Ohh, you're that second year who got called out by the coach earlier, right?" Futakuchi coos out, probably making a show of pinning his phone between his head and shoulder to clap his hands together as a form of mock apology, "Sorry, sorry, senpai, but I'm in the middle of a call and you're being very rude--"

Aone hears a clatter of something wooden, and some sort of shuffling before the distinct slam of a door, "What the hell, you little brat?"

"Kamasaki, what are you doing?" He hears another voice, light and gentle, but mostly exhausted, "It is literally the first day of practice and you're already picking fights?"

A third voice pipes up, amused and slightly raspy, "Do you even know that guy's name? I mean, if you're going to beat him up, at least know his name."

"Osu!" Futakuchi chirps happily, Aone can imagine him with his opponent's hand clutching the front of his shirt, smile charming and confident, "Nice to meet you, I'm Futakuchi and I can't wait to play with you all."

"Osu, I'm Moniwa and this is Sasaya, your favorite senpai over there is Kamasaki."

"Don't introduce yourselves, guys!" Kamasaki scolds, accompanied by a rustle of fabric and Futakuchi grunting, Aone assumes it means Futakuchi's being released from Kamasaki's grip, "That brat was smartmouthing me when I told him to stop lazing around and go to practice."

"Kamasaki-san," Futakuchi starts, drawing out the honorific petulantly, "You interrupted my phone call while I was still preparing and barked orders at me. Anyone would get annoyed at someone being so ill-mannered."

Aone winces as he hears the phone fall to the floor, Futakuchi yelping as Kamasaki yells out in rage, "Hmm, what was that you damn smartass? I'm going to have you run laps until you graduate!"

There's a chaotic mishmash of voices, Futakuchi alternating between crowing out insults and hissing out that Kamasaki shouldn't touch his hair, Sasaya possibly laughing while struggling to pull them apart with harried grunts, and Moniwa panicking and pacing about before Aone hears the footsteps grow louder, and then the receiver crackles before Moniwa's promptly clearing his throat.

"Um, hello there, Fujioka-kun's--" A shrill and pained voice hollers out a correction, "My name is Futakuchi, Moniwa-san. Geh!"

"Ah, sorry! Hello, Futakuchi-kun's friend. Or family? I'm not sure..." Moniwa trails off, mumbling to himself while Kamasaki's voice rises in the scramble.

"Oh, is that all you can say, what happened to that smart mouth of yours, huh? Geh? Geh?!"

Aone feels a little bad for the upperclassmen, especially Moniwa. He seems like a genuinely kind person who doesn't deserve Futakuchi's pension for chaos. At least not until he's grown to love him.

"Kamasaki, are you for real, just let. Just let. Him. Go." Sasaya's voice seems to struggle amidst them all, the sound of a hand thwacking something makes the room go silent.

Someone gasps, "Did. Did you just hit me, Futakuchi?"

"I was aiming for him, not you! My bad."

"Get him, Kamasaki, keep him in that headlock until he graduates!"

Moniwa groans, voice becoming distant, "None of us will graduate if you keep this up!"

He breathes out deeply into the phone, putting on a cheerful but ridiculously fast paced and absurdly polite reply, "Yes, hello, we're very sorry about this. Futakuchi will have to call you back. He's fine, though! Completely fine!" There's another loud bang, and the faint chant of someone doling out a string of curse words, "Ack, Sasaya, snap out of it and get Kamasaki off of him! The senpai are gonna be pissed."

"Holy fuck, did you just bite my arm you little shit?" Kamasaki grits out.

Futakuchi makes a sound like he just bit into a bitter vegetable, "Your nasty armpit was suffocating me."

"Again, I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Please have a nice day!" Moniwa rushes out before the line cuts off with a click.

The dial tone hums in Aone's ear.

Aone blinks, holding his phone at arm's length, then blinks again.

Watari shoves himself off the lockers and decides to blink as well. "What's wrong?"

Aone shakes his head and sends Futakuchi's number a text, hoping that Moniwa-san manages to read it before their club activities start. He folds his phone shut and shoves it back in his bag primly, closing the locker door and joining Watari in heading towards the gym entrance.

"My friend met some senpai."

Hello,

This is Aone Takanobu, Futakuchi's friend. Please take good care of him. He likes sour gummies and doesn't like his tosses too high.

Thank you. ʕ´•㉨•`ʔ

Watari gasps delightedly as they enter the gymnasium, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Look at this place!"

Aone does look, gaze sliding from one end of the gym to the other, There are volleyball club members scattered about. Teal shirts and pale shorts a bright pop of color against a backdrop of wood, metal, and concrete.

It's so easy to tell the upperclassmen from the first years. A lot of Aone and Watari's batchmates wear Aoba Johsai's gym shirts, or their old club's uniforms, bleating and wandering about like wayward sheep.

They look awkward and nervous, little herds of young and impressionable boys eyeing the second and third years in a mix of awe and apprehension.

In contrast, the upperclassmen look like a pack of wolves, lounging about with a sense of calm and camaraderie. Aone can see some of the members watching the younger students with little to mild curiosity, whispering to their clubmates with a look ranging from amused to pitying.

There are other upperclassmen that stand out more, though. The type Aone has no doubt Futakuchi would put at the top of his hitlist, ready to challenge their tempers and resolve. He can pick out a few of them, strategically spread out, perhaps a tactic by the coaches to mitigate the level of chaos distributed in each cluster of members.

There are two upperclassmen, tall and with broad shoulders, that Aone notices near a full bin of volleyballs. The taller one, messy ink locks and a serious expression Aone can resonate with, leans his folded arms on the rim, rolling the bin back and forth while he murmurs something to his friend, pointing at a nervous trio of freshmen at the corner of Aone's field of vision. His friend looks to the group and makes his own comment, laughing before spotting Aone watching them. He nudges the other boy with his elbow while staring him down.

Aone holds his gaze, focuses on dark eyes beneath a fringe of curly hair, shade lost somewhere between a specific light brown that Aone can't fathom, or an almost strawberry blonde that reminds him of that one idol his old libero liked. Aone chastises himself for forgetting to stop by the art club, mourning the sleep he'll be losing over trying to identify a box's worth of colors in the same family.

The older boy salutes at him, putting his weight on one foot as his taller friend slings an arm over his shoulders, flashing Aone a victory sign, serious expression still fixed on his face.

Aone is caught between the urge to bow and to throw a victory sign back when Watari pokes him in the shoulder, dragging his attention away from the pair and on to the shorter first year.

"Hey, are you just going to stand in front of the door all day?" Watari asks with an amused curl of his mouth.

Aone stands a little straighter and regards him with a single and firm nod of the head, "There are some tall people on the team."

Watari tries to pick apart his sentence, eyes thoughtful as he rubs his chin.

"You're happy about that?" He tries, taking in Aone's face for a reaction.

Aone's brows raise a bit, mouth still a calm line. He nods once again.

"You're happy about me getting that right too." Watari declares with a proud laugh, reply a little more confident as he places his hands on his hips. He bursts into that wide grin that makes Aone nod again, two nods this time, at a faster pace.

There's a sudden grunt behind them, followed by a thud. Aone and Watari turn to see two more first years, apparently having collided on their way into the gym. Aone recognizes both of them.

On the floor, having fallen back from crashing into the other student, is his classmate Yahaba. He looks different out of his blazer, arms toned and taut where they are, holding him up as he leans back to look up, face grimacing and ready to either give out an apology or demand one when he sees the other first year standing in front of him.

Yahaba's face flickers with a brief look of recognition before it smooths out into that sizably polite mask Aone sits three seats behind. His classmate's voice is level, calm yet precise in its sharpness. "Sorry. You should watch where you're going."

The other boy, short hair familiarly blonde with streaks of black, narrows his eyes at Yahaba, back muscles tensing at his tone.

Watari reacts first, wrapping a hand around Aone's wrist and tugging him along, likely to provide back up in the form of standing menacingly beside him. "Hey, you, uh, you both okay?"

He offers a hand out to Yahaba, snapping him out of his staring contest with the other boy to eye Watari's hand in surprise. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

The tension dissipates somewhat, and Aone glances from Watari who's helping dust Yahaba off to the other boy with blonde hair and black streaks, his glare softened but still directed at Aone's classmate.

Aone shifts to stand up straight again, movement gaining all three boy's attention. Yahaba finally notices him and mouths out an 'oh', realizing that they're classmates. Watari looks thoughtful again, patiently waiting for Aone to move. The other boy, though, simply turns his head towards him, body still somewhat angled to face Yahaba and the door.

Aone does the only thing he knows has never failed him in his time of need.

He bows.

It's graceful and curt, both hands behind his back and posture flawless. Watari snorts out a laugh, shaking his head and stepping forward to ruffle Aone's lowered head. "You're such a polite guy, it's kind of ridiculous."

Aone straightens, letting Watari's hand slide off of his head. He tilts his head and shrugs, figuring that it was only common sense to greet their fellow first years.

Yahaba stares at him the way most people in their class do, bewildered and not quite sure what to do with themselves. He recovers quickly and bows back hesitantly, "Good to see you again."

"Hmm?" Watari looks between them, "Have you guys met before?"

The other boy clicks his tongue, interrupting them and turning to storm off further on to the court. Aone watches him reach a lone corner of the gym, other first years shuffling away as subtly as they can manage.

He hears another click of the tongue and whips his head back to Yahaba and Watari.

Yahaba's face is scrunched up, frustration and derision clear as day in the heat in his eyes and the clench in his jaw. "What an asshole."

Aone doesn't know what to say to that, thinking of the other boy's dip of the head underneath a wooden arbor. He turns to Watari instead, addressing his earlier question. "Yahaba-san and I are classmates."

Yahaba is surprised yet again, staring up at him with another bewildered look. "Yeah."

He looks as if he still wants to say something else, biting at his lip and furrowing his brow.

"Aone-san, right?" He offers, voice slightly apologetic for some reason.

Aone visibly brightens in the form of three quick nods of his head.

Watari punches Yahaba in the shoulder hard, beaming at him when he yelps out a startled "Hey!"

He ignores the petulant look Yahaba gives him to look over at Aone, pointing a finger up at him with a firm declaration. "Super happy."

Aone thinks about nodding, but then glances over his shoulder at where the two upperclassmen from earlier were standing. They're still there, though now they're both riding the volleyball bin, a shorter, slighter batchmate pushing them across the court while yelling out a battle cry that sounds suspiciously like the school cheer.

He glances back to Watari, still pointing at him with a smile.

Aone raises his hand, face calm as ever, and flashes them a victory sign.

A whistle blows throughout the gym, causing heads to turn to the coaches standing off to the side of the court. The older coach, face set in a stern line, pulls the whistle away from his mouth.

"Alright, let's get to it. First years line up over here with Mizoguchi-san." He doesn't seem to strain or exert any effort into speaking, but his voice still manages to boom like a thunderclap. His hand slaps the back of the younger coach next to him, "Everyone else, to my left."

The first years are frozen in place for a moment, collectively blinking in a mass wave of cluelessness. The second and third years are quick to drop what they're doing, grouping together in an organized set of rows. However, some upperclassmen shift and lean listlessly against each other, shoving and laughing into each other's shoulders.

Mizoguchi glares at the nearest group of frozen first years, "Are you all just going to stand there all day?" He roars and blows on his own whistle, shrill shriek breaking everyone out of their trance.

"Run, you headless chickens!" Someone bellows from the back of the upperclassmen's space, causing a surge of laughter and hoots from surrounding members.

It's a sudden scramble of first year bodies scurrying across the gym, shoes squeaking against wood as they struggle to align themselves in a decent semblance of order. There's constant shuffling, and some students have become irritable from their nerves, arguing and pushing past each other to settle themselves.

There's a brief moment where someone within the mob trips face first on the floor, visible between the loose throng of legs moving about.

A couple of voices from the middle of the upperclassman's group sound off, blowing air past their teeth to sympathize with the pain of the fall, murmuring a chorus of 'ow' before a pair of hands clap together, a supportive voice chirping out, "Don't mind, Clumsy-kun!"

Another student shuffling by helps them up.

Some more upperclassmen coo and clap, laughing lightly as they cheer. "MVP! MVP!"

A volleyball slams between the first and second rows of upperclassmen, instantly silencing the whole gym of voices.

Everyone holds their breath and watches as the ball bounces right into the hands of the student at the end of the second row. He stares down at it with a grim face, slowly looking up at where Coach Mizoguchi is eyeing all of them murderously while the older coach next to him is hiding a laugh behind his fist.

Gravely, like a resigned man sentenced to death, the student stares Mizoguchi in the eye and murmurs, "Nice kill."

Mizoguchi, thankfully, ignores him and shifts his gaze to the first years. They've finally herded themselves into a few lines, faces staring dead ahead.

The upperclassmen are about to let out a breath of relief when their coach addresses them, hand taking the clipboard his senior offers him.

"Second and third years, shut up or you'll get an extra twenty laps to demonstrate your endurance to the kouhai."

"First years," Mizoguchi barks, volume increasing as he waves his clipboard at the older coach. "This is Irihata-san, head coach of Aoba Johsai's Volleyball club. He's a good coach. One of the best. And he's fair."

Irihata sighs, smiling knowingly as if readying himself for a rehearsed skit he's seen too many times.

Mizoguchi's face splits into a demonic grin, "Me, though? I'm not into fair."

Some of the first years, and even some of the upperclassmen, shiver as Mizoguchi looks from one side to the other.

Aone, from one end of the last row, blinks but doesn't shift from his blank expression. He can't focus on his new coach listing down all the terrible things he's capable of. He's a bit more preoccupied with being the tallest first year in attendance, head well above the students in front of him. He feels like a bamboo plant in a field of short grass.

Amidst the chaos he'd gotten separated from Yahaba and Watari. Both of them are visible from his position, standing next to each other in the third row.

The other boy Aone knows, bright hair so obvious in the fourth row, seems to be shifting restlessly, back as tense as ever. Aone notices his rowmates on both sides inching away from him. He's right behind Yahaba, which worries him with the way Yahaba seems to be holding himself still from whirling around to punch the other boy.

"...which leads me to introductions." Aone finally hears the tail end of Mizoguchi's briefing. "Let's start with you, in the back."

Aone snaps his head up just in time to see Mizoguchi looking at him expectantly, frown on his face and eyebrows narrowed.

In the next moment, Aone marvels at the way all his fellow first years synchronize in turning to look at him.

A familiar supportive voice from earlier cheers him on, "You can do it, No Eyebrows-ku--Geh!"

"Shut up, dumbass." A different voice, rougher and softer than the first, hisses.

Aone furrows his brow at the sound but finds the distraction comforting all the same.

He huffs out a breath, steeling himself and adjusting his posture, and bows.

Introductions are as awkward and traumatizing as they usually are. A good portion of his upperclassmen and fellow first years' eyes pop wide open once Aone mentions his height. He thinks he hears someone whistle but he's not sure. They all endure the interrogation solidly enough. Both Watari and Yahaba handle their turns much more eloquently than Aone does, making him proud when they add in tidbits about why they chose their positions as setters. It's something he finds himself delighted to discover. And this is also how Aone finds out that his schoolmate from under the arbor is named Kyoutani Kentarou, Class 1-1.

It's not a lot of information, and not particularly helpful in identifying whether or not Kyoutani is willing to interact with Aone more than shy bows of the head, but at least he can put a name to the perpetually scowling face.

Aone doesn't have time to think about it right now though. The first years are required to do warm ups before going through drills, then a short slew of matches against the older members to determine strengths and weaknesses.

The warm ups include a couple of laps around the gym, first on the regimen, followed by a number of stretches, and what comes after Aone can't really remember.

He's running along at a fast pace, passing several students before he notices a group of upperclassmen huddled together near where the first years are doing laps. They murmur and glance up every so often, subtle but not enough for Aone to miss the way their eyes follow him along the track.

He feels his shoulders tense and grunts, speeding up and passing another few first years. He pretends he's a horse in a race, fastening blinders to his eyes to ignore the stares, making sure his gaze stays rooted forward as he passes a particularly out of breath first year.

There's a light punch on his left arm, nudging Aone a bit out of his invisible lane. He blinks and rights himself, turning to see Watari beaming at him. The shorter boy is sweating a little, but nowhere near winded.

Watari waves with the hand he'd used to jab at Aone, managing to keep pace with him as he lets out an exhilarated whoop.

"Don't mind them." He says suddenly, head leaning close as they pass the group. "They're probably just talking about how tall you are."

Aone can't help but stare at him, still maintaining his speed while watching silently.

"No, you're not obvious," He says in reply to his expression, shrugging and raising an arm out to smack into Yahaba's back and drag him along their pace as they pass him.

"What the hell?" Yahaba sputters but adjusts to their pace, nudging Watari's sweaty arm off his shoulders and making a bit of space between them.

Watari smiles over at him, but continues on with his conversation, "I just know what it's like to get shit for your height, that's all."

Yahaba blinks, leaning forward to look at Aone, then straightening back to face forward, "What are you guys talking about?"

"People with height complexes and no manners." Watari answers swiftly before Aone can even prepare to grunt out his own response.

There's a sudden burst of heat and wind shooting past Yahaba's left, making him jump and careen into Watari who takes the brunt of it nobly, shoving him back upright as they stare after Kyoutani's thundering figure.

"Speaking of no manners..." Yahaba quips with an unimpressed arch of his eyebrows.

Aone cranes his head back to follow Kyoutani making another turn, "He's fast."

Watari's hands shoot out to grab his and Yahaba's arms, grinning wide as he speeds up and pulls them along. "So are we!"

"Watari-san, wait!" Yahaba yells out as he tries to tug his arm back, matching Watari's accelerating pace.

Aone just stares at Watari until he glances back and winks, "Challenge accepted."

Yahaba can't stop the laugh that spills out of him, "This isn't a race." He points out even as he edges forward, smirking at the way he pulls ahead slightly.

Aone matches Yahaba, turning to look at him with a serious expression, and grunts out, "Slowpoke."

Somewhere a few schools away, Futakuchi feels a sudden surge of pride welling up in his chest.

"Oh my god, what?" Yahaba's jaw drops, scoffing in shock as he struggles to hold back an open-mouthed grin.

"Aone," Watari fails in trying to sound scandalized, laughter thrumming in his voice, "Did you just sass him?"

Aone doesn't answer either of them.

He raises his hand reverently, victory sign hovering next to his face, and in the blink of an eye, he dashes forward, leaving them to eat his dust.

The training drills are, in a way, soothing.

Aone gets separated from Watari and Yahaba again, randomly carted off into a different group awaiting their turn for receive drills. He's at the back of the line, which is nothing new.

Watari waves at him from the far end of the gym where they're doing spiking drills, just before he tosses a ball up for a first year who successfully performs a decent run up.

Yahaba is a little closer, queued up behind a line of masking tape on the floor where the second group of first years are going through service drills. He glances Aone's way and blinks at him, smiling before turning back to mentally prepare himself for his turn.

It's all very familiar, and the sense of normalcy relaxes Aone. The only thing missing would be Futakuchi, but there's obviously nothing that can be done about that.

He stares glumly at the back of the first year in front of him, the number eighteen glaring back at him in Chidoriyama's school colors. Aone doesn't remember the shirt appearing on the court last year. He's debating on whether or not he can ask the boy about it when the sound of squeaking feet halts to his left.

Aone turns his head at the noise, going through the odd experience of craning his neck up to look the other person in the eye. It's only a slight height difference, but the few centimeters feels like a challenge and a comfort at the same time.

He meets the eyes of one of the upperclassmen from earlier, hard to decipher strawberry brown hair (maybe if Aone asks nicely he'll explain what color to call it) matted with sweat against his forehead. He's grinning like Futakuchi. It's a languid grin, glossed over with something wide and charming, skillfully clouding an undoubtedly different intent underneath.

Aone mentally scolds himself for constantly comparing similar people to Futakuchi. It must be a part of withdrawal syndrome.

"Hey there, first year!" The upperclassman hums out, arm draping over Aone's shoulders like a particularly warm and sweaty scarf, hand patting along the curve of it once. "We meet again."

Aone wants to tell him that they haven't actually met yet, that him staring across the gym is hardly a proper introduction because there's no bow, or greeting, or a specific and hilarious incident to nurture the bond of all budding acquaintances. Something petulant and young in Aone adamantly bargains that there should at least be a bow.

There's the squeak of another pair of shoes to his right, and then the steady weight of an elbow is leaning on him, pinning the first upperclassman's hand further against his shoulder. Aone doesn't need to look to know it's the other upperclassman.

"Matsukawa, look." Matsukawa gasps and lightly swats at Aone's chest, looking him over fondly like a long lost child. "Small world, right?"

Matsukawa nods his head and breathes out a dramatically grateful sigh, "It really is, Hanamaki."

Aone feels Matsukawa's gaze flicker over to him, "Hi again, hello."

Matsukawa is calm as he speaks, voice soft and sincere despite the fact that he's obviously trying to make someone laugh.

"It's so good to see you. It's been a while. We haven't seen you since, hmm, let me see," He laments while bowing his head, patting Aone's chest gently and checking the watch on his wrist that is unsurprisingly invisible to everyone else. "Since the start of club."

Hanamaki gasps in shock and tightens his grip on Aone's shoulders, jiggling him a bit as he shakes his head, "That's such a long time, Matsukawa!"

"Isn't it?" Matsukawa agrees, giving Aone one final pat to the chest before stepping back and crossing his arms as he looks him over.

"In any case," Hanamaki says as he steps back as well, dusting Aone off and then putting a hand on his hip, "We've noticed you're ridiculously tall."

Matsukawa spins Aone around, moving one hand over his head to mark his height, slicing it through the air to hover over the space above Aone's own head to emphasize the difference. "Not as tall as us, however."

"But that's likely to change in the coming months." Hanamaki states as he saunters over to lean against Matsukawa, tapping his mouth with two fingers, "You seem like the type to shoot up a few centimeters when no one's looking."

"Ah, to have the blood of a titan." Matsukawa waxes fondly, face masterfully calm as he pushes his weight against Hanamaki.

Hanamaki pushes back and rests his head on Matsukawa's shoulder, "Mere mortals like me had to drink milk all the time just to stimulate growth."

"And pray hard during New Year's." Matsukawa adds with a solemn nod.

Hanamaki breaks, snorting out a laugh as he presses his face into Matsukawa's shoulder, "Sorry, sorry."

Matsukawa smirks, nudging Hanamaki's head off of his shoulder before looking at Aone with a softened gaze, "Ignore him. Joking aside, we're looking forward to seeing what you and your height can do later."

Aone perks up, poised and ready to bow to accept the challenge when both Matsukawa and Hanamaki are suddenly shoved apart like two living double doors being flung open. They steady themselves, wide eyed and blinking as they look over their shoulders together.

"Ya-ho~" An upperclassman sings in between them, short hair in immaculate dark waves and eyes a deep chocolate brown that beam at Aone as brightly and as blinding as the smile underneath.

The new arrival spreads his arms wide, accepting the imaginary applause as he bows magnanimously, "The great Oikawa-san is here!"

He throws up a victory sign and leans his elbow on Hanamaki's shoulder, "How's everyone doing over here?"

"Oikawa, aren't you supposed to be doing spiking drills," Hanamaki slides away from him, causing the other boy to fall forward before Matsukawa grabs him by the back of his shirt to right him. "You know, far away from here?"

Oikawa huffs and crosses his arms, leaning against Matsukawa's chest, hair tickling his face as Oikawa presses his head back on to his cheek.

"But you guys looked like you were having so much fun without me." He hums out as Matsukawa starts easing away, making him lean back further and further until he has to pinwheel his arms to get himself upright again. "Hey!"

"Your hair was making my face itchy." Matsukawa complains.

"Excuse me?" Oikawa asks with a scoff, putting a hand over his heart in deep offense, eyes accusing and narrowed, "Mattsun, touching my hair is like touching a baby angel's wings."

There's silence for a moment, Aone just watching this whole scene unfold, wondering if he should bow at all, or just turn back around and wait to be called like the rest of the first years studiously trying to avoid involvement with them.

"Oikawa, how dare you kill a baby." Hanamaki whispers lowly, shaking his head with a convincing frown on his face.

Matsukawa joins in, messing up Oikawa's hair and pushing his head down to make him bow in apology. "Baby killer."

"Hey, Mattsun, stop that!" Oikawa whines, hands reaching back to try and shove Matsukawa's arm away. "You guys are mean!"

"No one's meaner than a baby killer, though." Hanamaki reminds him, walking up in front of Oikawa to smack him lightly on the head. "Atone."

"No fair, two against one!" Oikawa cries, ducking out of the way when Hanamaki moves to smack him again.

Matsukawa manages to grab Oikawa's hands and pin them behind his back.

"Atone, baby killer." He orders resolutely.

"You're both just jealous of my hair." Oikawa mumbles in defense, lip jutting out in a pout.

"Conceited baby killer." Hanamaki accuses, grabbing Oikawa's nose and pinching it.

Aone hesitantly takes a step closer, hands abortively raising then lowering. He wants to pull them apart but isn't sure if that's acceptable considering he's only been a member of the team for less than a day.

He looks around for the coaches, or maybe another upperclassman. Even a manager, if they have one. He doesn't get the chance to do anything though, because the second his gaze returns to the three older boys, a blur of blue and yellow smashes right into his face.

Iwaizumi rolls the ball from the end of one arm to the other, eyes focused in tracking it as it reaches the edge of his fingertips. He feels his tongue peek out the corner of his mouth in concentration, left hand tossing the ball up to teeter on his right hand's forefinger. He starts to spin it, balancing the ball steadily and watching it blur into a swirl of alternating colors.

"Yuda, are you ready yet?" He asks faintly, eyes still watching the ball as he confidently turns around to face his partner, satisfied smile curving against his lips.

Yuda, in all his sweaty glory, is still in a full split on the floor, arms outstretched to touch his toes.

He scrunches his nose up, freckles even more apparent under the hot gym lights, and grunts as his fingers tap the toe of one shoe. "Almost."

Iwaizumi squints at him suspiciously and crouches down, ball still balanced and spinning as he crab walks closer to stare at his face.

"You're not stuck," Iwaizumi lifts his middle finger up, knocking the ball off balance and catching it in his hand, "Are you?"

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of Yuda's face as he deliberately avoids Iwaizumi's gaze, "O-of course not."

"Oh," Iwaizumi says menacingly, head tilting to the side with manic eyes, "So that means if I get ready to spike this at you, you'll be able to get up and receive it, right?"

He guides the ball in between them, rubber surface smacking loudly against his other hand as he hisses, "I feel like I can hit it really hard today too."

Yuda's lips tremble, he holds his breath for a few seconds before he sighs loudly, "Okay, okay, I'm stuck." He confesses with a light flush.

Iwaizumi hides a snicker behind the ball in his hands, standing up and peering over it to scold him, "I told you not to force yourself into a full split to impress the first years."

He offers the ball for Yuda to hold, something the other second year does obediently, pouting in defeat as Iwaizumi steps over him.

"Not all of us can be naturally cool, you know." Yuda mutters into the volleball, pressing it to his cheek.

Iwaizumi hits the back of his head with his knee, "Don't be a dumbass. The first years are going to think you're cool even if you just breathe on them. Come on, then. Arms up."

Yuda grips the ball tight in one hand before raising his arms enough for Iwaizumi to grab and pull up. He hears one of the other second years near them laughing, but Iwaizumi sends a glare hard enough that the boy suddenly chokes himself into silence.

Iwaizumi sighs and ruffles his hair before shoving his head gently, "If you wanna look cool, receive my killer spike."

Yuda can't disagree with the advice, so he tests his legs for any strain before distancing himself from Iwaizumi.

On his end, Iwaizumi gauges the space between them for his impending run up. It's enough, and he wasn't lying about being able to dish out some strong spikes today, so there's a surety in his bones that tells him this spike will be a good one.

But then, of course, in moments when Iwaizumi is prepared to perform anything remotely impressive, or rather, in moments when Iwaizumi is trying to live a content existence, one person in particular decides to make things difficult.

In addition to being tall and generally good looking, Oikawa comes equipped with flashing sirens outlining him wherever he goes. The sirens are special, unique to Iwaizumi's eyes and cursing him to be instinctively aware of the other boy when he's up to anything.

He sees them now, wailing and flashing wildly, blatantly orbiting around Oikawa as he skips towards Matsukawa and Hanamaki near one of the first years' drill areas.

"That's just like him." Iwaizumi mutters wearily, watching Oikawa shove his hands between Matsukawa and Hanamaki just to fling them apart and raise his arms up like he's a magnificent work of art.

He feels a throb at his temple, mouth easing into a scowl.

"Ready, Iwaizumi." Yuda calls from where he is, hands about to toss the ball.

Iwaizumi grits his teeth as Oikawa throws up a victory sign, breathing deeply as he nods his head in Yuda's direction.

The ball goes up, and from there it's like breathing. Simple muscle memory and the underlying thought of where to run, where to jump, where to spike. It's ingrained into Iwaizumi, painted into every vein with the sweat and blood of every win and loss. Pushing him along to the right speed, tugging him up to the right height, whisking him into just the right angle. It's so ingrained into Iwaizumi that he doesn't realize once he's in the air, palm hitting textured rubber, that his spike is aimed right at Oikawa.

Iwaizumi watches everything in slow motion.

Yuda looks over his shoulder to follow the ball shooting a straight path for where Oikawa and the others are. He shouts out to them, barking out a frantic warning.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki look over just as the ball darts between them, completely missing Oikawa who is bent over with his arms pinned back, and smashing straight into the face of a tall first year.

The sound of the ball hitting the kid's face is loud, but Hanamaki curses louder, turning a few heads as he gapes at the first year struggling to catch the ball once it falls from his face. The boy‘s hands twitch to cradle it, but it slips easily through the gap between them.

The ball rolls to a stop near his feet.

Matsukawa drops Oikawa quickly, rushing forward to place a hand on the younger boy's arm. Oikawa crawls towards the boy and helps Matsukawa and Hanamaki in tugging him into a sitting position.

When the first sliver of something red drips down the first year's face, Iwaizumi launches into a run, jumping over a few people and charging as fast as he can to the scene of the crime.

Aone smells rubber and sweat first. The scent is strong and familiar, pungent as he staggers back at the impact. He feels dirt next, rough and spread like sharp stars sticking to the apples of his cheeks and the cupid’s bow of his lips.

The ball falls from his face, slipping past his misaligned hands when he tries to catch it.

He doesn't see where it falls, can’t tell who curses loudly near him. His eyes are stinging, blurring with a dam of tears welling hot and irritating. There might be dirt in them as well.

The pressure against him ripples, blooming into the age old sting Aone normally finds against his palms. It hurts like a storm, thundering from his nose and spreading out like angry waves.

His mouth is open, but he can’t really say anything. He feels a little lightheaded.

What happened, again?

There’s an odd scrambling occurring, and then someone’s sweat soaked hand is on his arm, warm and insistent in tugging him down to the floor. There’s a pair of hands on his back and his side, helping ease him down to sit, yet another pair slowly folding his legs for him. It’s like pre-club stretching. Only gentler, for some reason.

Aone blinks, tears falling down the corners of his eyes. They really sting, and each blink proves to Aone that there really must be dirt caught in them.

“Shit,” That same voice from earlier resumes cursing, “Hey, damn, what was it? Aomu?”

Another voice to Aone’s right tilts his head towards him with steady fingers, “Aone, right? Aone, how are your eyes?”

His eyes?

The presence directly in front of him pats his cheeks twice. The voice is light, chipper and soft, but there’s something odd about it, like a slightly strained melody stuck on a note, “Hey, hey, come on and answer your senpai, okay?”

“Stings.” He mumbles out while still blinking. He can’t seem to focus on the faces, dirt and tears making his vision blurry. He decides to shut them tight, still feeling wetness dripping out of them. There’s a third warm trickle of something over his mouth.

Is he crying? How’d it make it all the way there? Is his nose running? How embarrassing.

“Damn it, he’s bleeding.” The airy voice flutters lower, sighing as they remove their hands from his cheeks. “Not good.”

The fingers tilting his head slightly to the right shift him to face forward, angling him to look up a bit. “I’m not surprised, that looked like a hard spike.”

It was. It was a very hard spike. A very good spike.

Aone tries to nod to agree, but the fingers tense and keep him looking up.

“Aone-kun,” The airy voice calls, “Can you pinch your nos--”

A fourth voice roars out from a distance, thudding and squeaking noises trailing close by, causing several more different voices to yelp and shout in dismay, “Out of the way!”

Movement in front of him, another burst of noise and chaos. The sound of sweaty skin skidding against hardwood floors. The voice in front of him squawks, tumbling to the side into someone.

“Man down, man down! How many victims do you want today, you brute?”

“Shut up, Oikawa!”

And then there’s a warm heat in front of him, someone panting and gently, but firmly, prying the fingers away. They’re calloused as well, warm and damp as they inspect him.

“Shit,” The new voice says, raspy and low, guilt lacing his words, “I am so sorry about this.”

Ah, the spiker.

Aone feels his head being tilted back up, making him frown. He imagines his face is reminiscent of Futakuchi’s favorite bear emoji. The unsure bear face his friend insists is his spitting image.

“Damn, you really did a number on him, Iwaizumi.” Someone hisses as Aone feels a soft fabric wipe his mouth before being replaced by a pair of fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” That’s Hanamaki agreeing, Aone finally remembers. Which means the earlier voice was likely Matsukawa. “I mean he’s just a baby and you slugged him right between the eyes.”

“Iwa-chan is a baby killer!” That must be Oikawa. He chirps out victoriously, “Kouhai killer!”

Hanamaki sighs and grunts, “Get up, Oikawa.”

Aone braces himself and opens his eyes. It still stings to blink, and his eyes are still watering, but there’s less dirt in the way. He sees Hanamaki to his left, hand nudging Oikawa back into a sitting position. It looks like he fell while Aone’s eyes had been closed. Matsukawa is flanking his right side, fingers from earlier still hovering in front of him as his face is pinched, wincing at Aone in sympathy.

In front of him, pinching the bridge of his nose with a mixture of worry and guilt on his face, is Iwaizumi. At least he thinks it’s Iwaizumi.

He blinks at the older boy, taking in the tan skin and dark green eyes. His shoulders are tense and there’s blood on the hem of his shirt. Aone’s blood.

How embarrassing.

Behind the figures of his upperclassmen, Aone can see groups moving towards them, curious and concerned in equal parts. He thinks he sees a flash of dyed hair among the students but he can’t be sure.

A whistle cuts through the murmurs, Irihita’s voice following shortly, “Alright, everyone not involved back off. Give them some space.”

He only hears Mizoguchi’s voice to his left, but he can see the shadow looming over them, feel the four boys in front of him tense a bit despite not looking to meet the coach’s gaze.

“Okay, what happened?” He demands, masking the concern in his voice with a growl.

Iwaizumi hunches his shoulders, face scrunching up and ready to declare that he’d injured an innocent first year, when Aone quickly moves to cover Iwaizumi’s hand with his own.

He still feels a bit dazed, and the pain is still throbbing across his face. He must look it as well, considering the way everyone eyes him with a revered sort of amazement as he tugs Iwaizumi’s fingers away from his face. He presses the hand into the older boy’s chest, his own other hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose himself when the trickle of blood thickens again.

Iwaizumi snaps out of watching him, tugging the hem of his shirt up again to wipe at the blood, “Dammit. I really am--”

“That spike.” Aone finally manages, grimacing at how his face hurts even at the most miniscule of movements.

Everyone stares at him again.

Aone hates that. But.

He licks his lips, tasting blood. He starts to nod his head, but Matsukawa has his fingers under his chin again, silently admonishing the movement.

Aone relents and continues, voice a little louder, rising with a sense of wonder and eagerness. “I...want to block that spike.”

“Block…” Hanamaki repeats with a blank look on his face.

Oikawa leans back against him, hand threading through his hair in disbelief, blinking and gaping, “...his spike?”

Matsukawa’s fingers fall away again. “Oh crap, I think he has a concussion.”

Aone somehow manages to huff past a pinched nose and stinging face. He looks at Iwaizumi’s speechless face with determination, promises out, “I’m going to block that spike.”

Iwaizumi sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening before he breaks into a fit of surprised laughter. His face scrunches again, but it’s pleasant this time. His eyes crinkle at the corners before he sobers to level him with an amused and mildly amazed stare.

“Hopefully you won’t block it with your face next time.” He says, hand hesitating for a moment before gently ruffling Aone’s hair, flashing a small and exasperated smile his way.

If Futakuchi were here Aone wouldn’t blame him if he said he was making that unsure bear face.

“Yuda!” Mizoguchi calls above them, waving at a second year near the door, “Go get one of the clinic attendants. Now.”

Iwaizumi retracts his hand to ruffle his own hair, sighing heavily as he eyes Aone critically, “You’re okay then?”

“Iwa-chan, what a stupid question. Of course he’s not--” Oikawa snaps his mouth shut at the glare Iwaizumi gives him, pressing back into Hanamaki who’s squinting down at him.

Matsukawa puts a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “Here.”

Aone feels the soft touch of tissue paper being placed in his hand, glancing from Matsukawa to the worried looking manager behind him, holding a box of tissue paper in her hands.

“Thank you.” He says with the tiniest smile, suddenly shy at their gazes. He turns back to Iwaizumi and Oikawa bickering in front of him, furrowing his brows and shifting awkwardly.

“I’m okay.” He states simply, tilting his head back up to regard their coach, repeating his earlier declaration. “I’m going to block that spike.”

Mizoguchi, to everyone’s shock, snorts out a laugh before giving Aone a smirk. “That’s a nice promise. But for now…” He trails off, pointing a finger to the empty benches lined up against the gymnasium wall.

Aone frowns, twisting the tissue paper one-handedly into a tight spiral.

“Don’t give me that face.” Mizoguchi scolds firmly, before glancing between the upperclassmen in front of them.

All four of them hold their breaths. Hanamaki freezes from pushing Oikawa’s head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi hovers with one hand against the other boy’s chest, leg stretched out over Matsukawa’s knee haphazardly. Matsukawa just sits still, hand held out to receive the tissue box their manager is carefully lowering while backing away from them all.

They all stare at different portions of the floor.

Mizoguchi finally selects his prey, piercing gaze catching chestnut brown eyes, “Oikawa.”

“Yes, Coach?” Oikawa groans, thumping his head against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi tries to nudge it off while remaining still.

“Take care of Aone until Yuda comes back with the nurse.” He says before turning to walk back to Irihata. “Everyone else, back to it!”

“Yes, sir.” Oikawa sighs and nods sullenly, muttering into his teammate’s shoulder, “Even though it was Iwa-chan’s fault.”

Iwaizumi jabs him in the stomach, face flushed and irritated. He gets up first, glancing at Matsukawa as they both silently move to loop an arm under Aone’s biceps to help him up.

Matsukawa grunts, “Whoa, up we go, big guy.”

Aone sticks the tissue in his nose as soon as he regains his balance, politely moving away from Iwaizumi’s hands as he tries to dust him off.

Iwaizumi pauses, eyeing him from head to toe. He frowns thoughtfully.

Oikawa springs up at the movement, pushing Hanamaki flat on his back from the force of it. “Dammit, Oikawa!”

“Oh, my, my, “ Oikawa hums and slings an arm around Iwaizumi, smile wide and mischievous, “Iwa-chan, have you noticed Aone-kun’s impressive height?”

Iwaizumi grips Oikawa’s face with his fingers, nails pressing into the boy’s cheeks, voice dark as he orders out, “Go sit with him, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa stiffly removes his arm from Iwaizumi’s shoulders, hand moving to salute him. “Yes, sir.”

Iwaizumi grunts and takes hold of Hanamaki’s flailing hands, tugging him up and herding him away. “Dibs on Hanamaki while Yuda’s still out!”

“Hey, no fair!” Matsukawa deposits the tissue box with Aone before sprinting after them, slapping his hands on their backsides before darting away from two fists aimed at his face. “Fine, I’m going to go practice with Shida.”

Oikawa watches them before turning to Aone, hands on his hips and smile shifting into something different. It seems soft, kind even. Aone thinks it suits him better than the other smiles.

He bows to him, hands holding the tissue box with gentle fingers, waiting patiently for the upperclassman to move towards the benches before taking a step himself.

“Aone-kun,” Oikawa calls as he makes his way to the benches, hand beckoning him to trail after like a lost duckling holding a box of tissue, “You’re so polite it’s kind of ridiculous.”

Aone ducks his head, smiling at the familiar words. Eyes looking to where Watari’s group is. He isn’t prepping to toss, or running up for a spike. He’s waiting, staring at Aone and brightening when their gazes meet. He sees the shorter boy furrow his brow, throwing a thumbs up at him as he mouths, ‘You okay?’

Aone’s smile widens, hopefully enough to be visible across the gym. He returns the thumbs up, turning back to face front when he catches Yahaba shaking his head with a relieved smile at him from another corner of the court.

Aone wiggles his thumb to further emphasize his status, lowering his hand just as Oikawa spins around to sit on the end of a bench, patting the space next to him. “Come sit with your senpai, Oikawa-san, Aone-kun!”

He raises an eyebrow at Aone, as if silently amused at what’s been transpiring behind him. It suits him, that surety and confidence. But Aone finds himself preferring the earlier smile despite how well made this look is for the second year.

Aone shuffles forward to sit next to him, providing the upperclassman with a wide enough birth of space between them. He places the tissue box on his other side, putting his hands on his lap, fingers threaded together.

He looks up to catch Iwaizumi staring at them, turning away when Hanamaki calls him with a ball in his hands.

Oikawa slides closer to him, space between them slowly diminishing. Aone glances at him from the corner of his eye, lips pursed in confusion.

“Feeling dizzy?” He asks, smiling brightly at a passing first year who gawks at him, starstruck and giddy as he runs off to his group.

Aone shakes his head, gently touching his nose and tugging at the rolled up piece of tissue paper, feeling warm blood gush a bit at the movement. He stuffs it back in quickly and sighs.

“Still bleeding, huh?” Oikawa guesses, tilting his head in his direction, smile back to the one Aone likes.

Aone nods, shifting to place the tissue box on his lap out of lack of something to do. He feels Iwaizumi staring at them again.

He tries to stare back, but ends up too slow, catching the twirl of the boy’s head right before he runs up for another vicious spike aimed for the empty water bottle a good distance from where they are.

Aone perks up, holding his breath as his lips quirk up, excitement bubbling beneath his skin.

It’ll be really fun to block that.

“Ah,” Oikawa moans dramatically, leaning against Aone’s arm with the back of his hand slapped over his forehead, face filled with pained longing, “I really want to block that amazing spike!”

Aone wonders if it would be rude to edge away from his upperclassmen.

Oikawa opens his eyes, intense copper staring straight at him. It makes Aone still, held breath hissing out of him in shock. The melodrama lifts off of Oikawa, dissipating in the air to leave nothing but the older boy’s confident smile and predatory gaze. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

Aone nods because he’s not wrong. It’s a little frightening.

The change is startling. Effortless and quick like a lightning strike. Electricity bottled into limbs that barely contain the energy surging beneath. And just as quick, the change reverts.

Oikawa pulls away from him, folding his legs under him on the bench while he starts humming a pop song Aone can’t name, bopping his head to the beat as his hands curl around his ankles.

Aone thinks, quietly as he watches Oikawa continue to hum, face carefree but eyes sharp as they dart between teammates, that the boy might be too big for his bones.

He wonders what a spike from him will be like.

Oikawa seems to hear him, gaze shifting to eye him casually. It feels deceptive. The promise of warm embers that flash bright and blinding like the sun.

“I can’t wait to see what you can do, Aone-kun.”

It sounds like a threat, but it also sounds like the truth.

Oikawa waits with him quietly enough, humming fading in and out between new songs he remembers off the top of his head. He doesn’t move away from Aone, but he doesn’t move to lean against him again.

It feels like permission, like Oikawa allows Aone to exist within the same space as him. But that’s not completely accurate. There’s less dominance and control involved, less benevolence and more curiosity. Perhaps it isn’t that Oikawa allows Aone to exist within the same space as him, but that he acknowledges the undisputable fact of it instead.

It doesn’t feel like permission after all then, it feels like something unwrapped and raw, steaming hot like peeled chestnuts roasted over open fire. Something sweet and salty and familiar, with no fear, no judgement, no unsure stares at his hair or height or size.

It feels like trust, and the absence of any requirement to receive it.

“What position do you like to play again? Middle blocker?”

Aone tears his gaze from the shiny wooden floorboards, turning to nod his head in Oikawa’s direction.

Oikawa gives him that look again, the one that his instincts make him want to block like a particularly fearsome spike. The older boy leans forward, pressing his chest down against his legs, stretching himself before he slides a hand out from underneath to tug on tissue paper, releasing it from the box before gently reaching over to brush it against Aone’s chin, scraping off dried blood. “It suits you.”

Aone blinks at the gesture, fiddling with the box on his lap as he waits for Oikawa to elaborate.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow, balling up the used tissue and depositing it in the small space between his thighs. He turns to watch Iwaizumi send up a ball for Hanamaki to spike.

“Defensive positions like blockers are all about being the ultimate support,” He says seriously, moving to lean his cheek against a hand, “You seem like someone very supportive.”

Aone shouldn’t be surprised by the statement but he is. He looks down, watching his thumb trace the corner of the tissue box as he shrugs humbly. “I try to be.”

Oikawa snorts and flaps his other hand, waving away Aone’s words, correcting him with a firm wag of his finger, “You are.”

He clicks his tongue, tutting at him in overt disappointment and closing his eyes, placing his fingers over his head like a put upon mother, “How are you going to stand a chance against Iwa-chan’s colossal spikes if you aren’t one hundred percent confident in your blocking?”

Aone straightens his back and huffs out a breath of air, indignant as he quietly replies, “I am confident in my blocking.”

Oikawa drops the hand over his forehead, straightens to match Aone with a victorious smile on his face. “Then do your best later!”

“Iwa-chan leaves no prisoners, you know,” Oikawa says to him, leaning closer and cupping his free hand over his cheek, whispering avidly while making a show of glancing at the second year in question, “He’s such a brute.”

Aone makes an unsure bear face, absently noting that it seems to be the appropriate response to most things in this school. He follows Oikawa’s gaze and stares at Iwaizumi cheering on a nearby pair, wiping sweat from his face with the collar of his shirt. His eyes catch the hem of it, bloodstained and awkward looking on him, and he can’t help but become an even more unsure bear.

Brute isn’t a term he’d consider calling an upperclassmen who would wipe someone’s blood away with their own shirt.

“Iwaizumi-san seems very nice though.” Aone says, not quite sure what else to tell the second year other than something honest.

Oikawa sighs in defeat, stretching his arms over his head and popping the knots in his back with a satisfying series of cracking noises. “It’s fine if you don’t believe it yet, little Aone-kun, only I can see him for what he truly is.”

Aone squints at him, tilting his head to try and decipher the joke, or if it was even a joke at all, when Oikawa snatches his hand to hold it soothingly.

“In any case,” Oikawa chirps with a newfound burst of energy, cooing at him in a regretful tone, “On behalf of all your senpai, I apologize for you having to sit out on your first day. That’s got to suck.”

Aone stares at his hand clasped between the upperclassman’s palms with widened eyes and a vague sense of horror. He’s internally panicking whether or not he’s supposed to do something about this.

Oikawa keeps going, patting Aone’s hand while nodding his head sagely, next few words supportive and cheerful, “Don’t mind, don’t mind. The great Oikawa-senpai will toss to you next time so cheer up.”

He draws the hand patting Aone back to flash him a victory sign, beaming at him proudly, “Yay! Aren’t you lucky?”

Aone has enough sense of coherence to nod at him dumbly.

“Now then,” Oikawa settles back to face forward, fingers still curled around Aone’s hand, and gives Iwaizumi the brightest grin Aone’s ever seen. “Let’s pay attention to your Iwa-chan-senpai before he throws another ball in your face, hmm?”

Iwaizumi is seething, eyes narrowed directly at Oikawa and his smile. His jaw is clenched, head shaking reproachfully with one hand placed on his hip and a ball resting on the other.

Aone feels conflicted about finding the other boy terrifying and impressive at the same time.

Oikawa doesn’t even flinch though, grin widening in earnest. He shifts his hold on Aone’s hand, making it wave at Iwaizumi like a limp meat puppet’s limb.

“Hi there, mean-senpai!” Oikawa sings out loud, cupping his other hand around his mouth and yelling even louder, “Iwa-chan, jeez, wave back to your kouhai!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t wave back. He throws his ball to Hanamaki, slowly stalking towards the benches with a frighteningly determined expression. Hanamaki holds the ball together in lieu of being able to make a proper praying position, bowing in Oikawa’s direction as if to send him off to the spirit world.

Aone just watches quietly, letting Oikawa use his arm to wave at Iwaizumi who is steadily getting closer. He’s about to ask if they can stop waving when an out of breath upperclassman appears beside them, stumbling in from the nearby doors to guide the school nurse to them.

“Ah, here they are.” The upperclassman sighs, panting and resting a hand on the wall. “Aone-san, the nurse needs to check if you’re alright.”

The nurse smiles at both of them on the bench gently, setting down his kit beside Aone before sitting down. “Got hit in the face on your first day of club, huh?”

Aone nods sheepishly, shifting to face the nurse better as he feels Oikawa release his hand and stand up abruptly.

“Yuda-chan, come greet the first years with me now!” Oikawa declares brightly, hastily looping their arms and power walking towards the far end of the gym, sliding away from Iwaizumi’s incoming figure.

“What? But I was practicing with--”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Oikawa?!” Iwaizumi hounds, smoothly turning to power walk after them, long strides gaining quickly.

Oikawa laughs dismissively, “Sorry, Iwa-chan, we have to go say hi to some adorable first years, so, see you later!”

“Do your best, Oikawa!” Matsukawa cheers from where he’s pushing Shida around in another wayward ball cart.

Shida slaps a hand on to Matsukawa’s head for leverage, heaving himself up on his knees in the pile of balls to pump a fist in the air, “Give it to him good, Iwaizumi!”

The nurse beside Aone sighs and opens his kit, smirking at him before gingerly tugging the tissue out of his nose, “Welcome to Seijou, kid.”

Club ends without much fanfare. It’s not disappointing in its normalcy, although that could be due to Aone’s exhaustion. He’s fairly aware of it being due to getting spiked in the face, but if anything, Aone tries to be optimistic and chalks up his weariness to the excitement of the eventful day.

Watari and Yahaba are waiting outside, having decided to race each other to see who could change faster for the prize of a sponsored yakisoba bread tomorrow, courtesy of the loser.

Yahaba lost by the skin of his teeth.

Sore face and throbbing headache aside, Aone counts today as a win. He’s found a good spot for lunch, made two friends, and gotten to know some rather interesting senpai. It’s also going to be a fun story to tell Futakuchi once he gets home.

He’s smiling to himself at the thought, excited to open the conversation with something along the lines of ‘I got spiked in the face’ or ‘Victory signs are pretty fun’ when a smudge of bright blond appears at the corner of his eye.

He turns his head, peering over the door of his locker, and catches sight of Kyoutani shifting his book bag back and forth to make room for his used shirt.

Kyoutani feels his gaze and freezes, fingers curled around the opening of his bag and head bowed. He looks up at him through his lashes, eyebrows sloping in suspicion.

He keeps his eyes locked on to Aone’s, punching his sweaty shirt deeper into his bag with sharp jabs. “What?”

Aone blinks before remembering something, “Ah.”

Kyoutani tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing further as he lets his open bag dangle from one hand, the other curling into a fist by his side.

Aone holds up a hand to request him to wait, he shoves his hand in one of his bag’s pockets, blindly feeling around until it presses against a folded piece of paper. He tugs it out quickly and nudges the door of his locker before stepping closer to the other boy.

“Here.” Aone says while he cradles a plump looking paper pouch in his palm, holding it out to Kyoutani expectantly.

The shorter boy eyes his hand, then his face, then decides to step closer. He squints at it, “The hell is this?”

Aone blinks and moves to unfold a flap, sliding a finger inside to touch warm metal. He shakes it in his hand once, making the contents jingle slightly. “You left your change at the vending machine.”

For a moment, Kyoutani’s eyebrows unfurrow, mouth smoothing from its pout and eyes widening slowly. He seems surprised, and something else Aone can’t quite comprehend. But he doesn’t have enough time to figure it out before Kyoutani’s face shifts back, milder but still grumpy looking.

He plucks the makeshift pouch out of Aone’s hand and stuffs it in his pocket. There’s a long pause between them where Aone lowers his hand to his side and Kyoutani zips up his bag.

Then, again, for a moment, Kyoutani dips his head, soft and barely there before he turns around to leave.

Aone blinks again, headache-addled mind processing what just happened before his hand goes up in a tiny, gentle fist pump.

Maybe he’ll be able to tell Futakuchi he’s made three friends today instead of two.